So apparently we're back to huge chapters. This monster is basically 8k. Also I was going to hold onto it until Friday but I am so PUMPED about the filibuster last night, and DOMA and Prop 8 today, that you're getting this early. I CAN GET MARRIED IN THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA. Thank SCOTUS and Wendy Davis, guys.
September slipped away. Sarah graded essays for her own class, then found herself grading increasingly difficult potions and transfiguration essays. She did a lot of reading for her private lessons; there were mornings she woke with an arm still stained with ink.
The word that Jareth was the Goblin King spread through the school, though it was generally met with the same incredulity that had been Carrick's reaction. It wound up not mattering. Jareth stayed away throughout the rest of September, though he left flowers — peach blossoms, half the time, damn him — in her mirror.
Sarah shared her truffles with Minerva and Rolanda Hooch. Minerva enjoyed them, though Sarah suspected she would have preferred a cream filling. Hooch wound up ordering her own box by Floo.
By the last week of September, she found herself regularly Scourgifying her robes the moment she left the dungeons. It didn't quite match having them laundered, but it usually removed the worst of the smells that clung to her.
Unfortunately, there was no way to get the smell out of her hair save taking a bath.
Transfiguration, at least, was turning into something very like a social hour. Sarah would grade essays, perform a practical transfiguration, and then they would spend the rest of the time talking.
On the first of October, Sarah headed into Hogsmeade. She had a plan for the Halloween Feast. Jareth could make fun of her propensity for costumes all he liked, but she was not wearing the same robe to the Halloween Feast she'd worn to the Sorting Feast.
She stepped into Gladrags and stared. The robes were... different from Malkins's. But still, she absolutely would find or commission something suitable.
Once again, a little bell jingled as she entered the shop. After a few moments, a witch in robes with an asymmetrical hemline bustled out of a backroom.
Sarah smiled. "Good afternoon. I'm Sarah Williams, and I'd like to commission some dress robes for the Hogwarts Halloween Feast."
The witch beamed. "Well, I'm Mirlinda Baum, and you've come to the right place!"
During her second lesson in the first week of October, Sarah worked on turning ash into parchment. The basic components were all there, so the spell itself was easy.
But she found herself thinking back to three burnt letters. One heavy, one light, and one she had known, as sharply and suddenly as being stabbed, that her mother would never bother to answer.
So, while Minerva tested the parchment, Sarah tried to phrase her question.
At length, she took a deep breath and asked, "Minerva, did you ever teach an Eluned Carrow? She probably liked to call herself Linda."
Minerva looked up. Her eyes sharpened on Sarah. Sarah suspected she was being evaluated, her features measured, her past statements weighed.
"I taught her some few years ago, yes. I recall she excelled in Charms, but she was no slouch at Transfiguration, either. Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Potions, however..."
That sounded like her mother. Creative and visual, with just enough analytical thought to be decent at Transfiguration. But not an overly academic sort.
"What House was she in?"
Minerva's lips pursed. She frowned, eyes narrowing at the memory. "She was a Gryffindor. Which I always found odd; the Carrows throw Slytherins. Why on earth are you asking about her, of all people?"
Sarah almost said, 'no reason.' But Minerva had just volunteered the truth. She owed the professor an honest answer.
"She's my mother."
"And yet you never knew you were a witch? I'd say I find that hard to believe..." Minerva trailed off, then gave her a speculative look. "Eluned always did talk about leaving England for America. From the first day she came here."
"And leaving magic to become a movie star?"
"No. That talk didn't start until her fifth year or so. I thought it was nonsense, but as you are here and from America, I assume it wasn't?"
"She's more famous for her relationship with another movie star, Jeremy Michaels. But she was popular in the late sixties, before I was born."
"How fortunate for her," Minerva said, tone so dry it was brittle. She sounded almost bitter. "Eluned escaped the earliest stages of the war and went off to America, where she was never asked to take sides."
Sarah said nothing. She hadn't had time to read an in-depth history of the war against the Dark Lord. But she wondered if his slow gathering of power had anything to do with her mother's desperation to leave.
"I should be glad one of my students escaped the war. And I am glad that she did. But we lost so many, Sarah. Many of them barely more than children. Eluned could have helped us."
"I'm sorry."
Minerva shook her head. "No. There's no need for you to apologize for your mother's actions. And what's done is done. No use dwelling on what might have been."
Sarah decided not to mention that 'done is done' was one of Jareth's favorite sayings. It couldn't possibly end well.
In the second week of October, Sarah handed out children's books written by non-magical people. She'd selected them carefully to make sure there were no concepts of magic remotely compatible with the world her students lived in.
"Alright, grab a book and a composition notebook. Journal about the experience. If you feel like you're not understanding what you're reading, underline it in the text, write about it in your journal, bring it to me."
Her morning class groaned. As one, they chorused, "You're here and happy to help."
Sarah laughed. "That's right. Now, you've got some time on those — I want your journals by the last Friday of October. And remember to bring a friend next Friday; we're doing a practical that should be shared."
Eighteenth October 1991 went a delightful mix of wonderfully and terribly. As she'd instructed, the students all brought at least one friend. A few of those friends were even non-hereditary wizards and witches.
Sarah hauled in a cardboard box from her office and began laying out supplies on the front-most desk. Then she waved her wand and pulled out several ovens.
"Today, we're going to learn about following directions, and how to cook without using any magic at all. If I see a single wand out, I will take fifteen points from your House."
The students from non-magical families all grinned at the sight of boxes of cake and brownie mix that Sarah had assembled on the front row. She'd included other ingredients, as well, and mixing bowls.
"Alright, everyone. You have the entire class period to produce an edible cake."
What ensued was chaos. Sarah had to extract one hapless tag-along — brought, no doubt, because his parents weren't magical — and sit him down to keep him from doing his friend's work.
Apparently, most of these children had only ever watched their parents crack eggs with magic. Some of them had never seen food prepared at all. Food preparation, for the richer ones, was the job of 'house elves,' whatever those were.
She watched eggs crack all over the desks. Batter was stirred and sloshed everywhere. She couldn't quite keep the smile from her face, though she made sure to clean the floors, at least. Messy desks and hands and robes were one thing, but she didn't need anybody slipping on the stone floors.
"Lecturer?"
Sarah looked up. Witwicky and Colson held two pans full of batter between them. Each wore a hopeful expression.
"Yes, boys?"
"What's pre-heating?"
"That's when you turn the oven to the temperature it needs to be, and wait for it to get there." Sarah paused a moment, then said, "The little orange light will stop shining."
Both boys nodded, then headed to the ovens. Eventually, most of the teens had managed to pour their batter into a pan and get the pan into the oven.
Sarah was almost surprised to discover that most of the baked goods turned out perfectly edible. Young'd lost most of his batter, but Witwicky helped him pull his cake out of the oven before it could burn.
Sarah pulled the very final ingredient out of her cardboard box: canned frosting.
"Anyone who wants can frost their cakes. Remember, no magic!"
Icing went everywhere. Sarah found herself laughing as Cecille Westenra tried in vain to comb chocolate frosting from her hair. The girl eventually gave up and sucked on the ends of her braid, eyes glinting with laughter.
She took pity on Young and helped him to spread vanilla frosting all over his cake. He poured multi-colored sprinkles on top of the icing.
"There," Sarah said as class ended. "Go on, take the cakes with you. I don't care when or how you eat it — though your other professors might. Just get me the pans back by Sunday."
Word apparently spread through the school like a spark through kindling. That afternoon found her classroom packed with auditors — including Hermione, Harry Potter, his red-headed friend, and the Longbottom boy.
Sarah intercepted Seamus Finnigan and steered him away from the ovens. "Minerva tells me that you," she said, "can make pumpkin juice explode. So you put your wand up and stay in the back with the other auditors."
A few minutes later, Sarah had to intercept Hermione on her way to help Persephone Greengrass. She gently grabbed the girl by the shoulders and steered her toward the back of the classroom. "Nope. I know you know how to bake a cake. Greengrass has to learn. Go sit with Longbottom and Finnigan."
Under his breath, the Weasley boy muttered, "Just has to show everyone how to do everything."
Sarah caught his eye and arched a brow. "Five from Gryffindor for in-fighting. Don't let me catch you at that again, Weasley."
About half an hour into the challenge, Greengrass lost most of her batter when Evans accidentally knocked her bowl over. One of the auditors — a pointy-chinned blond boy with gray eyes; he could have been Evans's sharper, weaselly cousin — clapped sarcastically.
"Well done, Greengrass," the boy drawled. "You've obviously learned how to —"
Sarah caught his eyes, arched a brow, and smiled. "Eight points from Slytherin, whoever you are. If you want to keep talking, I can keep taking points."
"I'm Draco Malfoy," the boy said.
"Three more from Slytherin, which means you have lost your House eleven points in less than two minutes. I suggest you shut your mouth." The boy's mouth closed, but he cast her dark, furious glances. Sarah folded her arms over her chest. "I want my students to learn the non-magical way of doing things. I won't have any of them mocked for it."
"She's a Slytherin!"
"Then six from Slytherin for in-fighting. I don't tolerate in-House bullying in my classroom. And three more for continuing to talk. Now you've lost a nice, round twenty points."
"Well, she shouldn't have to learn it anyway. The Muggle way is stupid!"
Movement in the classroom stopped. Her students stopped talking, all eyes on her to gauge her reaction. The other auditors also stopped talking, sensing from the silence of her students that something interesting was about to happen.
Sarah took a deep breath and let it out. She felt strangely calm. Cold inside. She was angry — of course she was angry; he'd just insulted her parents and brother, not to mention the subject she taught. But stronger than the anger was a sense of sadness and exasperation.
She drew on it. And said, very calmly, "We don't use that word in this classroom. Twenty points from Slytherin for use of the word 'Muggle.'"
"You can't be serious — this is a Muggle studies —"
"Stop. Talking," she snapped. "Twenty more points for use of it again. I don't care if you say you didn't know — you chose to audit this class. It's your responsibility to ask what the classroom rules are. And an additional fifteen points for blatant disrespect of the subject."
Malfoy opened and closed his mouth. The other Slytherins in the classroom were all watching him with narrowed eyes. He'd lost them seventy-five points in the space of five minutes. They evidently didn't appreciate it.
"Now, Mr. Malfoy, you can leave my classroom gracefully, or I can remove you. But it's obviously a very bad idea for you to stay here." Sarah made a point to smile at him.
Malfoy swept out of the classroom with two hulking students following after.
Sarah moved over to Greengrass's side, then Vanished the batter still in her bowl. "Start again. You're free after this, right?"
Greengrass nodded. "Yes, Lecturer Williams."
"Then you can have a few minutes extra. But you should still have plenty of time."
Unlike the morning students, the afternoon students ended up eating their cake in the classroom. The auditors even each had a slice.
Sarah noted the way Harry smiled at something as simple as getting to eat cake. Her heart squeezed painfully. Had he never even had that?
If she ever met the people responsible for how thin he was, the shadows in his eyes, the mistrust with which he looked at adults, she was going to have a very hard time not throttling them. Was this how Jareth felt, confronted with a parent or sibling who'd wished away a child out of their own selfishness?
She patted Hermione on the shoulder, then headed to stand near Harry and the Weasley boy. When they looked up at her — the Weasley boy had icing on the corner of his mouth — Sarah grinned.
"So, can I hope to see you in your third years?"
"Dunno," said the Weasley boy, "are you going to do cake every year?"
"Probably," Sarah admitted. "This certainly seems to have worked well."
"Except for Malfoy," Harry said, tone dark. Sarah suspected a nasty history.
She shrugged, kept her tone deliberately breezy. "Well, there's always going to be someone ruining something in a school this big. I'm not going to let him drag me or my students down."
Harry opened his mouth to reply, but Evans had finally circled back around to her favorite topic. "Professor —"
"—Lecturer," Sarah corrected, sighing. It was funny; the kids who liked her seemed to forget she wasn't actually a professor. The kids who tried to look down their nose at a woman around seven years their senior all delighted in emphasizing that she was only a lecturer.
"Sorry, Lecturer. Will the Goblin King come to dinner tonight?"
Sarah blinked at Evans. "Why on earth would he do that?"
"Well, we were all making cake..."
Was it the nature of a thirteen year old to ascribe significance where there was none, in pursuit of interesting teachers, or was it the way damn near every western culture socialized girls to over-value romantic relationships? Or was this just a unique confluence of 'weird thirteen year old' and 'girl socialized to over-value romance?'
Regardless, she found herself spluttering a laugh. "Constantia Evans, you have got to give up on this thing you have about me and His Majesty. I've had this cake day planned since before I even knew Jareth would be stopping by so often. You can ask Minerva McGonagall; she proofread my curriculum."
"But you'll invite him, won't you?"
"No. He's not coming back for a visit until Halloween, probably." Sarah pointed. "And if you keep asking, I'll tell him he's got an admirer."
Weasley snorted. "The goblins don't have a king. Is she talking about the chief whatever of Gringotts?"
Sarah rolled her eyes. "You remember that guy with the crazy hair who was hanging around with me at the Sorting feast? And at breakfast last month?"
Harry nodded. Weasley looked thoughtful for a moment before he nodded as well.
"His name is Jareth and he's definitely the King of the Goblins." Sarah was tempted to say that they could ask Ryan Carrick what happened if they disagreed with Jareth on that point. Instead she said, "I know it sounds preposterous, but I promise it's true."
"So you're friends with a King?" Weasley looked torn between thinking the revelation was false and being impressed.
"We're working on it," Sarah said. She looked at the clock, then sighed. "Alright, go on. This class is long over and you have a few hours until dinner. Go and do... student things."
A week before the Halloween feast, Sarah placed her hand against her silver mirror again. The mirror rippled, tickling her palm, and then Jareth's face appeared. His mouth had quirked up at the corners. Once again, Sarah received the impression that the only thing dividing their hands was a pair of worlds and a thin layer of silver.
"We're having a feast at Halloween." Sarah grinned impishly. "I think I might be intimidated."
"Scared of a meal? I recall you being much braver than that." Jareth smirked at her. "Such a pity."
Sarah rolled her eyes. "You've caught me out, Goblin King. I'm inviting you to the Feast."
Jareth gave her a wicked grin. "I would be glad to escort you."
In the days leading up to Halloween, Sarah's potions work turned grueling. She had moved from the basics of making potions to OWL level skills, such as identifying the effects of the Moon on various ingredients — the effects of the stars were much trickier and evidently NEWT-level — and skinning her own boomslangs and other creatures.
She took to wearing old tee shirts and a pair of jeans she hated to class. And then she found herself pulling her hair into a tight bun on the top of her head.
On the Monday before Halloween, Sarah's potions lesson came before dinner. When she took her seat at the meal, Rolanda wrinkled her nose.
Sarah only gave her a rueful grin. "Sorry, Rolanda. I had to skin puffskeins."
"Good lord. What on earth is the skin of a puffskein good for?" Rowe wrinkled his nose as well.
"It's more just to get the fur out of the way so you can get at the liver," Sarah said. "They're good in a number of potions, especially at this phase of the moon, when they can be substituted for —"
"Uhlgh, peeling back the skin and reaching in for the liver," Rowe said. "Some of us were planning on eating, Sarah."
At his end of the table, Snape actually looked amused for a few moments before he went back to eating and his usual dour expression.
Thirty-first October 1991 was a Thursday. Sarah had no classes that day, so she spent the morning reading and responding to journals. After lunch, she headed to Hogsmeade.
Her first order of business was to call home.
"Sarah! You're a little early for this week," Irene said.
"I've got a free day today. Thought I'd call and wish you a happy Halloween."
Irene laughed. "It's that important a holiday up in remote Scotland?"
"We're having a special dinner tonight. I think it's because the kids can't go trick-or-treating."
"You can't send them off to take candy from strangers, so you fill them full of... what, pumpkin pie and ice cream?"
"Something like that, I think. Anyway, I know you've been hoping I could come out for Thanksgiving, but considering when Christmas vacation starts..."
"Can't take that kind of time off?"
Truth be told, she probably could have done Thanksgiving. If her parents knew about magic. It'd be easy to whip up a Portkey to her parents's house, and then another to get back to the Hogwarts grounds. She didn't have classes on Thursdays.
It was yet another reason to tell her parents. Maybe over Christmas, when she'd have been working for a term. When she could reassure them that it was safe, and that she was happy and healthy. That magic didn't have to upend their ordinary lives.
"I'm sorry, but I just don't think the Headmaster would allow it."
"Well, we'd hoped to have you," Irene said, sighing. "But honestly, Robert and I didn't really expect it. Toby will be a little disappointed. By the way, where on earth did you find that candy?"
"Oh, the Ice Mice? They're made a by a specialty shop in the village closest the school."
"They are fantastic. Toby insisted I take a bite. I've never tasted such crisp mint! Does that specialty shop grow their own or something?"
"Honestly, I have no idea. But they're a little like magic, aren't they?" Sarah forced a laugh.
"Just a little. But if you're not coming for Thanksgiving, does that mean we'll get to have you for Christmas?"
"I promise, from December Twenty-Third until after the New Year, I'll be all yours."
"For the first time in four years," Irene said, tone a touch dry. "You know, Robert was just distraught when you didn't come home that very first Christmas after you started college."
"I'm sure you cheered him right up."
"Oh, no, I was upset too. The last thing I've ever wanted for you is to be lonely, and I just didn't see how a semester in England could be nearly enough time to make the close friends you'd need."
Sarah remembered that Christmas. She'd missed home and her family with an ache sharp like physical pain. She'd spent most of Christmas Eve cuddled up with Ludo and cried at how alone she felt on Christmas morning.
And yet, even at the time, it had felt right somehow. Grown up. Like this was an important first step to being independent. It had been hard, but looking back, she felt it would be wrong — a step backward — to wish to trade that hard Christmas for comfort.
"Well, I missed you guys. But it didn't kill me."
"No, it apparently made you stronger than ever. Do you realize it's been four years since you've been back to the United States? I've got friends who are convinced you got married or something over there."
"Oh god. I'd never do that to you guys. If there's anybody in my life I want to marry, I promise, you and Dad will be the first people to know." Sarah paused for a moment, then asked, "So how has America changed since I've been gone, huh?"
"Not that much, honestly. There's an election in a year. Are you going to vote?"
Sarah opened her mouth to say, 'Of course,' and stopped. After a moment, she shook away the sense that in coming to Hogwarts, she had left both her home country and her old world behind. She was still an American; of course she would vote in a presidential election. It'd just be a little harder to stay informed.
"Of course. But you're going to have to keep me updated on the campaigns. I don't get any international news out here." Sarah looked at the time, then bit back a curse. "Oh, lord, Irene, why didn't you tell me how long we'd been on the phone?"
"Sarah, it's really not a problem."
"Well, I'm sure other people want to make phone calls around here. I'll see you at Christmas and I'll talk to you all again on Sunday. Give Dad and Toby my love."
"Of course, dear. Love you."
"Love you, too."
Sarah left the Three Broomsticks and headed over to Gladrags. Mirlinda Baum greeted her immediately, with the same bright smile as the first time they'd met.
"Right over there, love."
Sarah quickly unfastened the cloth her robes had been wrapped in to make sure she had the right ones, then smiled her approval. "Perfect. I still owe you a galleon on these, don't I?"
Mirlinda's smile spread wider.
"Right." Sarah tossed the coin onto the counter and whirled out.
Really, in her opinion, nothing made a girl feel pretty like new clothes.
Just why she wanted to feel pretty for a Halloween Feast a children's school — a Feast the Goblin King would be attending — didn't bear thinking about.
Sarah braided the very top of her hair into a crown, though she let its ends and the rest of it fall down her back. After a moment, she nodded and changed into her robes.
The deep, autumnal red — the red of a fallen leaf — was okay. It didn't make her look washed out, at least. The interwoven threads of gold livened the color up a bit.
But what she really loved about these robes was the fit. Well, the fit and the girdle. Mirlinda had tightened the robes in the bodice, then dropped the waist down to the natural waist. The final touch as a medieval-style girdle that started at the waist and fell down to the hem. The strip of fabric started out at the robe's base color, but gradually deepened until it was nearly black.
Even better, the fabric had been enchanted to feel light rather than like she was wearing a bunch of heavy brocade.
Sarah smoothed the skirts in the mirror, for a moment admiring the line of her waist, then she turned and headed out the door.
Once again, Jareth was waiting for her on the main stair. He'd worn deep red and gold as well, autumn colors that managed to avoid the stereotypical orange and black. He looked surprisingly good in red, but Sarah suspected that Jareth probably looked good in anything.
He offered her his arm. This time, she took it, smiling over at him.
He'd even dyed a streak of red into his hair.
They made their way through the Great Hall and to the staff table. Jareth conjured himself a chair again. He smiled toothily at Severus Snape, who was looking on in blatant disapproval. Evidently having just one person at his table whose mind he couldn't read was bad enough, but two — and at a Feast — was just more than he could bear without glaring.
Rolanda Hooch, bless her, was utterly unintimidated by Jareth's smugness and Snape's irritation.
"Love the hair, your majesty," she said in a dry voice.
Food appeared on plates. Once again, Jareth it did so, but he didn't explain.
At some point, he and Sarah and Rolanda found themselves once again on the subject of transfiguration.
"Definitely, if you're going to be an animagus, birds are the best." Hooch nodded firmly. "I mean, I've always loved the sky, don't get me wrong, but birds are dead useful."
"Barn owls especially," Jareth drawled. "Sarah, you would not believe the gossip I could be privy to, if I only drudged for a day or so."
"I can't imagine you 'drudging' a day in your life, Goblin King," Sarah teased. "And I think the barn owl transformation is your schtick."
"But, if not a wise and majestic barn owl — or a fierce-eyed hawk, what would you change your shape to be?"
"Oh, I don't know. A grizzly bear or a tiger, maybe. Something big and scary and with soft, cuddly fur."
"A tiger, she says, " Jareth grumbled.
Sarah just grinned and poured him more mead. After a moment, she looked out at the student tables. Her eyes sought out Harry naturally, but then she realized that there was a bushy brown head missing from the Gryffindor table.
"I'll be right back," Sarah said, then scooted out from table. She headed toward the Gryffindors.
After a moment, she was facing Harry and Weasley. A couple of other first years were clustered nearby.
"Where's Hermione?"
Weasley and Harry looked up at her. Weasley looked to Harry. Harry looked at Weasley. Neither answered.
A first year girl said, a touch nastily, "She's been crying in the sub-floor bathroom since Charms because someone had to go and be a great big git, Ron Weasley."
"I didn't know she heard me," Ron said.
Sarah pinched the bridge of her nose. "Do I really have to take points from Gryffindor for in-House bullying again? We've had this conversation, before, I swear!"
Both Ron and Harry looked down. Ron was shifting in his seat, his gaze on the wood grain of the Gryffindor table. Poor kid couldn't even look at his food.
Sarah sighed. "Right. I'm not taking points. But I'm going to go see if I can talk the kid out of the bathroom."
She didn't bother lifting her skirts as she stalked out of the room. Let them drag along the stone floor. She needed to focus on not clenching her fists.
Jareth watched Sarah interrogate the children near Harry. After a moment, she heaved an exasperated sigh and stalked from the room.
He tilted his head to an angle that felt more comfortable to think in. Next to him, the hawk shapechanger let out a faintly surprised hiss.
He paid her no mind. Something was wrong. There was some faint scent of sour magic on the air. But he couldn't identify it, and time — always his plaything before — seemed sullen and fixed today.
Then the doors to the Great Hall flew open and in strode the garlic-smelling man with the stutter. His pale face had gone even whiter than usual, making him look very nearly bloodless. His pale eyes were wide in his face, gaze roving wildly across the Hall.
Jareth unclenched his hands from the table and smoothed away the deep gouges his temporary claws had left.
"T-t-troll in the dungeon!" The man delivered the news at a shout — was he fear-mongering, or was he truly so deeply irrational? — and then added, more quietly, "I thought you ought to know."
With that, the stutterer fainted.
The Hall erupted into chaos. He hadn't sensed so many frightened children in one room in several hundred years. Instinct, the weight of thousands of years of obligation, demanded he do something.
"But where has Severus gone?" This from the cat shapechanger — Sarah's McGonagall.
"I have no idea, Minerva." The human-hawk looked around, but then she shook her head. "I don't see him at all."
He watched as McGonagall scanned the room. After a moment of hesitation, she turned to him. "Your Majesty. There is no one to guard the Slytherin children. Will you see them safely to a classroom here on the ground floor?"
Jareth gave her half a bow. "I will."
And then he made for the table with the children in badges of green and silver.
Harry watched as the blond man who hung about Lecturer Williams headed to the Slytherin table and began to gather the children into an almost-orderly mob. Every so often, he darted glances at the main doors, but he stayed with the Slytherins. He even led them in the opposite direction, toward the nearest classrooms.
Hadn't Lecturer Williams headed to the dungeons?
Come to think of it...
Harry grabbed Ron's arm. "I've just thought — Hermione."
"What about her?" But Ron's face was pale. He already knew. "Doesn't she have a teacher with her?"
"But they don't know about the troll."
Ron bit his lip. Harry was silent a moment, watching as his friend weighed what they both knew against the fear.
"Oh, all right," Ron finally said, voice strung tight with something Harry didn't want to admit to but felt, too. "But we can't let Percy see us."
Sarah made her way to the dungeon bathroom. She pulled a ring of keys from her left sleeve and unlocked the door. She swung the door open and swept in, not bothering to grab her key and put it back on the ring. She'd pick it up as they left.
She heard a muffled sob coming from one of the middle stalls.
"Hermione?"
No answer save another sob.
"Hermione, talk to me, please."
More inarticulate crying. Sarah sighed. Ron Weasley had really done a number. Or maybe it was isolation, homesickness, her coping mechanism only alienating everyone around her, and the ups-and-downs of childhood. If she was honest with herself, she suspected the latter.
She'd been eighteen years old when she'd left her parents and moved to Oxford, and she'd had weekly phone calls and the promise of visits, if all went well. She'd missed them so terribly it had burned.
God only knew what an eleven year old must be going through.
Sarah sighed and made her way to the stall with a crying girl behind its door. She rapped on the wood. "Come on, Hermione. If you won't talk, at least let me in."
After a long pause, the door swung inward. Sarah scooted in. When she saw Hermione's pale, blotchy face, she privately cursed every Headmaster hadn't seen or cared how utterly cut off from their parents the children without wizard parents were.
Sarah gathered the girl in her arms. "Why didn't you tell me how alone you felt, huh? There's a phone in Hogsmeade. I could have seen about getting you a phone call home."
Hermione mumbled something through her tears.
And then the door creaked open.
Sarah was about to snap and tell whoever had come down there to leave, but the person who walked in had heavy footsteps. They didn't breathe like any human she'd ever heard.
What was going on? Dread crept in ice-cold rivulets along her spine.
Just above the quiet and strangely labored breathing, she heard the door close and the soft, subtle click of a lock. Hermione slowly looked up at her, blotchy tears draining away into fear, and Sarah realized the eleven-year-old had heard it too.
Sarah scooted forward slightly so Hermione could open the stall door inward, then pushed Hermione back toward the wall and poked her head out.
What she saw did not make her happy. She wasn't sure what it was, but it was huge, had strange, craggy outcroppings on its gray skin, and it was carrying a club about the size of the Christmas tree Irene put up in their living room every year. It also stank.
"Hermione," Sarah whispered. "Get down."
Thankfully, the little Gryffindor listened to her. She flopped almost bonelessly to the ground, covering her head in her hands.
Sarah had just enough time to get down before something — probably the club — crashed into the bathroom stalls with a reverberating boom like thunder right next to her ears. Splinters and porcelain shards and chips of castle stone flew in an explosive tangle.
Hermione screamed. On any other day, the shrill noise would have set Sarah's teeth on edge and turned her stomach sour. But fear of the thing in the room with them was busily transfiguring her blood to water.
The thing roared back at them and the club lashed out again.
They crawled on their stomachs, ahead of the impact by inches. Sarah rolled away from the stalls — she needed space to move and maneuver and they definitely needed not to be hit by any castle shrapnel. And if she stayed near that rubble, her skirt was going to get caught. As it was, she had to rip off the girdle and toss it aside.
Right. She had an eleven year old to protect, a wand, and a… huge thing between them and the door. Sarah looked up. Then she looked up some more.
Slowly, the thing raised its club. Time seemed to stretch. She could see the rocky growths on the thing's skin, could see the shadows grow as the club blocked the light.
Behind it, the door opened. Sarah's strange sense of dilated time snapped as Harry Potter and his red-headed friend — the youngest Weasley, Ron — peered in.
The thing swung its arm down.
Sarah ducked away, striking her side against a sink. Pain bloomed, hot and quick. She barely had time to gasp before the thing swung at the wall.
It was instinct to dodge to the side again. She ended up half-crouched near where the stalls had been. Once again she looked up at the thing. She could hear the hiss of broken pipes leaking water, but she didn't take her eyes off it.
There was no sign of intelligence in its eyes. No sign of thought, no sign of real intent. There was anger on its face, but it looked distant to her, vague. Uncomprehending.
She wasn't going to out-strength it. She wasn't going to beat it with endurance. But she could damn well out-think it. Quite frankly, the eleven-year-old Gryffindors could probably outthink it.
"Hermione," Sarah said. "I'm going to distract it. You're going to run to the door, push the boys out, and find me some help."
Harry's green eyes fixed on her. He looked at the thing, then straightened his chin, standing a little taller. Next to him, the Ron straightened, too, planting his feet stubbornly.
And from behind her, Hermione said, voice soft but tone hard, "That's a mountain troll. I'm not leaving you behind, professor."
Once again the world seemed to resume. The thing — the troll — raised its arm. Harry surged forward. His hands gripped the outcroppings on the thing's skin and he climbed the creature, clinging to its neck.
The troll roared and shook itself, trying to peel the boy off.
She had to distract it somehow. Sarah turned to her left and picked up a piece of porcelain sink. She stepped back, drew back her arm, and threw. Years of summer softball camps served her well; the piece of sink smacked into the troll's nose, causing it to howl and stomp in pain.
The bathroom shook. She saw rubble bouncing at the impact of its feet.
"Okay, new plan! Harry and I distract it, Ron and Hermione come up with a better idea. Hermione, what kills trolls?"
That was not a fair plan. Well, life wasn't fair, and Harry was clinging to a troll with his wand stuck up its nose. The troll swatted the air behind it, still unable to grab the boy it couldn't see.
Sarah stomped on the ground and shouted, clapping her hands to get its attention. It dropped its club with a clatter and crash, then reached out to grab her. She stumbled backwards, nearly tripping from a combination of long skirt and wet floor.
"We have to hit it with something heavy!" Hermione said. She tugged on Sarah's shoulder, trying to drag her to her feet.
Sarah stood. Her movements felt slow. Her entire left side hurt.
Harry was tugging on its ears, so Sarah drew her wand and cast incendio on the fur it was wearing around one of its ankles. Fire blazed, quick and bright, and the troll shrieked. It stomped wildly, kicking stalls and rubble, swatting at its own legs to try and put out the orange flame.
"So what's the heaviest thing in here?" She asked.
Harry yelled out, "The club!"
Ron went white. "I can't hit it with that! None of us can lift it!"
Sarah cast incendio on the other legwarmer, and Hermione screamed.
The boy aimed his wand. His hand trembled, making the wand seem to jerk as he levelled it at the club. Sweat beaded on his forehead. After a moment of silence that seemed to last far, far too long, he swished, flicked, and shouted, "Wingardium Leviosa!"
Time stretched again. The troll's club began to float. It drifted higher and higher, almost lazily, above all their heads but toward the troll. Slowly, the troll turned, reaching for its club as if confused. Harry used the moment to pull his wand out of the troll's nose.
When the heaviest part of the club was several feet above the troll's face, time snapped back again and the club dropped. The crunch echoed through the bathroom.
Blood dripped from the troll's nose. The troll reeled, then collapsed forward.
Rubble jumped and the mirror rattled as the troll hit the ground.
Sarah looked to the mirror. The highly-polished metal had begun to ripple, and Hoggle's face appeared.
"Sarah?" Hogle reached out to touch the glass.
Sarah stepped back. "Hoggle, not now."
But his arm came through. And away down the hall she heard the click of approaching footsteps. When she looked back to the mirror, she saw Harry's wide eyes, half-reflected in the ripples.
She grabbed Hoggle's arm and pulled him through. Before he could speak, she clapped a hand over his mouth.
"Kids, this is going to sound crazy," she said. "But I need you not to mention him to whoever's coming. Or me, actually. I promise I'll explain later, but Hoggle can't be seen here. They might blame him for this."
A stall hung at an angle, with a porcelain toilet on the ground in front of it. It would do to hide them. She dragged Hoggle behind it and hunkered down.
In stormed — three people, from the sound of it. Minerva McGonagall's voice demanded, "What on earth were you thinking of?"
Her voice had the sharpness of a whipcrack.
When the children had no answer, Minerva continued: "You're lucky you weren't killed. Why aren't you in your dormitory?"
Silence. And then Hermione said, in a small tone, "Please, professor. They were looking for me."
"Miss Granger?!"
"I went looking for the troll. I... I thought I could handle it. I've read all about them, you see."
Perhaps she shouldn't be approving of a student lying to a professor — to the deputy headmaster, no less — but Sarah found herself grinning at that last. It was a masterstroke. Hermione Granger's penchant for reading was well-known amongst the staff.
"If they hadn't found me," Hermione said, "I'd be dead now. Harry and Ron didn't have time to run or fetch anyone. It was about to... to... finish things... when they arrived."
Hoggle looked at Sarah and raised an eyebrow. She shook her head.
"Well, if that's the case..." Minerva sighed. Her tone was mostly exasperated, but when she spoke again, Sarah thought she heard a touch of pride. "I"m very disappointed in you, Miss Granger. I'll take five points from Gryffindor for this. Now run to your dormitory and finish the feast."
Footsteps as Hermione fled the room.
To Harry and Ron, she said, "Well. It may have been dumb luck, but not many first years could take on a twelve-foot mountain troll, lucky or no. Five points to each of you, and Dumbledore will hear of this. You may go."
More footsteps.
Then Snape's voice murmured, "Locomotor troll."
More footsteps. Sarah stayed where she was, then let out a sigh of relief when the door slammed shut. She waited just a few seconds more, then stood and left their hiding place.
"Can you use the mirrors to travel to my rooms?"
Hoggle nodded, apparently not quite daring to speak. Sarah wondered just how angry he thought she was.
Well, she certainly wasn't happy with him. Let him think she was angry.
"Then you'd better go there. I'll be up just as soon as I've talked to the children." She stepped closer to the silver mirror. After a moment, she muttered Scourgify and aimed her wand at her soaked robes. She twined her hair up and into a loose bun, then swept out of the room, grabbing her girdle and muttering a drying charm as she went.
Might as well face the music now.
She looked at least some semblance of who she'd been at the feast by the time she reached the Gryffindor common room.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione were all standing outside the portrait. They were talking, gesticulating wildly. Sarah ducked behind a corner and watched.
After a moment, Ron reached out and slung his arm over Harry's shoulder, then over Hermione's.
Rather than jump up and down, clap, or squeal, Sarah took a deep breath.
And then she stepped out from behind the corner. She couldn't stop the smile, but at the way Ron's eyes narrowed speculatively and the way Harry watched her with outright suspicion, the smile began to die.
"I'm sorry I couldn't explain things just then, and I'm sorry I couldn't keep you out of trouble with Professor McGonagall. My reasons for being here in the castle are... complicated."
"You'd think," Hermione said, voice very soft, "that a Hogwarts professor like you could handle a troll."
"Well, I'm only a lecturer. And since now you've seen me at my worst, I might as well explain the whole thing to you. Whenever you're ready, I'll be in my chambers or my office and willing to talk." Sarah paused, then said, "My password is 'Valentine evenings.'"
With that, she spun on her heel and headed out. Part of her was terrified that telling them meant it would be all over the school. But they had made no mention of her to McGonagall when it could have saved them at least a little trouble. They had secrets of their own to keep.
Both Jareth and Hoggle were waiting for her in her rooms. Hoggle stood in front of her fire, looking positively miserable, while Jareth paced the room.
The moment Sarah had shut the door, Jareth looked toward her. His movements were sharp, sudden. Relief etched itself across his face, drained the tension from his shoulders and stance.
"Sarah," he breathed. "You're as unharmed at Hogworth said you were."
"Did you think I lied?!"
"I don't want to hear another word out of you," Jareth snapped.
"Jareth," Sarah said. "I'm alright. Really. A little tired and a little sore and a lot like I just had a heart attack, but I came out of it just fine. You should be proud of those three."
She headed to the armchair in front of her fire and sank into it gratefully. Her side had begun to throb.
"You faced down a twelve-foot mountain troll with children at your side?!" Jareth drew closer to her.
"They wouldn't leave me. And I could hardly have left them."
Jareth tugged at his hair in a gesture of exasperation. He paced across the room, fuming, for a few moments. When he reached the wall, he simply planted his foot and continued pacing. His cape didn't billow; his hair didn't ripple. It was as if Jareth had decided that her wall was his floor, and gravity agreed.
It got really surreal when Jareth started pacing on the ceiling.
He made it to another wall and walked back down, then crossed to yet another wall and back up the ceiling.
"You had one job, Hogbrat. One," Jareth snarled from the center of her ceiling before he swept his cape behind him and turned on his heel. He marched around the ceiling a few more paces. "And you are such a coward you cannot even risk your own skin for half a minute to pull your own friend and a few children away from a troll —"
A child's voice murmured, "Valentine evenings," and three children bundled into her front room. Jareth was still on the ceiling, half turned to see who the intruders were.
The trio's eyes had all widened. After a split second, Ron's face lit up, and he whispered, "Cool!"
